They were heaving at a broken limb, trying to clear an opening the wagon could squeeze through, when the dog leapt at the Archer.
Breaker hadn't seen or heard the animal's approach; the steady downpour had hidden it effectively. It wasn't until the fast, close movement caught his eye, and he heard the thud of its forepaws hitting the Archer's bent back, that Breaker saw it.
It was a large black dog, a shepherd of some sort— between the rain and the combatants' thrashing Breaker could make out little detail beyond size, color, and general shape. The people of Mad Oak did not keep herd animals, and therefore did not keep herd dogs, so even after a year's travels Breaker was not very familiar with the specific breeds, but this one was big and fierce, and it was biting and clawing at the Archer with unnatural ferocity and in unnatural silence.
The Archer fell—not to the ground, but into the tangle of downed tree in front of him—as he tried to twist around to face his attacker, and as the dog's jaws closed on his neck.
The Leader called "Attack! We're under attack!" and turned, arms raised, to see whether any more animals were approaching. He made no move to aid the Archer.
Breaker, on the other hand, ran forward immediately. His hand fell instinctively to where the hilt of his sword should have been—but he had left the weapon in the wagon, to keep it dry and stave off rust. "Black ler!" he growled, as he hesitated.
If he ran for the wagon to fetch his blade, the Archer might well be maimed or dead before he returned, and he might collide with the others coming to help. If he dove in bare-handed, he might be taking his life in his hands—was the dog rabid, possessed, or mad?
But the Archer needed help, and there were weapons at hand—he snapped a branch from the fallen tree.
He had intended to wield it like a broom or a whip, to try to drive the dog away, but the minute his hand closed around one end of the stick his grip shifted, and he found himself falling into a fencing stance.
His first thrust caught the thrashing dog squarely in the back ribs, despite its twisting as the Archer struggled in its grip; the animal turned slightly, trying to face this new assailant, and that gave Breaker the opening he needed. He plunged the stick into the dog's eye.
It yelped, releasing its hold on the Archer, and Breaker automatically followed up with a jab at the dog's throat, and then a stab at its other eye.
"It's the Wizard Lord!" the Seer's voice shouted from the wagon.
"I guessed as much," Breaker called back, preparing for another thrust—but the dog had had enough; it leapt from the Archer's back over the fallen tree and bounded away, yelping and howling and stumbling.
Breaker dropped his improvised weapon and jumped to help the Archer; as he took one of the injured man's shoulders he found the Leader at the other, and together they got the Archer to his feet.
"Are you all right?" Breaker asked, although he could see that the Archer was not—blood was streaming down his back, and his hands were red as well.
"I don't know," the Archer said. "What was that?"
"Just a dog," the Leader said, as he turned his wounded companion toward the wagon.
"A big one, with the Wizard Lord possessing it," Breaker added. They did not bother with further conversation as they hurried the Archer to the wagon and hoisted him in.
Breaker had expected confusion once they got inside, but instead he found three women waiting and ready, the Beauty in the middle, the Seer on her right, and the Speaker on her left; they stretched the Archer out and bent over him as the Scholar pulled Breaker and the Leader away.
"What..." Breaker began.
"It's part of their magic," the Scholar said. "Babble can talk to the ler to see the nature of the injury, Seer can see the strength of his spirit and judge what needs to be done, and the Beauty can heal with her touch—not completely, not any more than a strong priestess, but enough to help. Let them work."
Breaker nodded, but then shoved past the Speaker to fetch his sword; once armed, he climbed quickly back out of the wagon.
"What do you think you're doing?" the Leader demanded, as Breaker pushed past him.
'There could be more," Breaker said. "Why would the Wizard Lord stop with one? He hasn't stopped the lightning or the rain when his first attempt failed." He grimaced. "And we still need to move that tree."
"Good," the Leader said. "Come on, then." He turned, and the two of them climbed down side by side.
They had scarcely cleared the wagon when the buck charged at them, head down.
It was a large deer, its antlers tall and many-pronged. Without thinking, Breaker shoved the Leader aside and snatched his sword from its scabbard; he barely dodged the animal's antlers.
But then the sword slashed through the rain and pierced the big deer's neck. The speed of the charge almost yanked the weapon from Breaker's hand, but he withdrew it as the buck thundered past.
The animal turned, blood gushing from its throat, and dove for the Leader; Breaker ran a pace after it and plunged his blade between its ribs as the Leader rolled in the mud, trying to get clear of the buck's hooves.
The deer thrashed, and tried to pivot, to get at Breaker, but he leapt nimbly away and thrust his sword into the beast's flank yet again.
He could see that its eyes were already clouded over, its movements unsteady, its left foreleg stiff and unresponsive, but still it came at him; he did not need the Seer to tell him that the Wizard Lord's magic was driving the dying creature far beyond its nature. Any ordinary deer would have fled or fallen long since.
He dodged again, and once again thrust his sword into the doomed animal, this time aiming a fierce slash just behind the shoulder, to cripple it—by rights it should already be dead, he knew, and the Wizard Lord's magic was keeping it alive, but could even the Wizard Lord force it to move severed muscles?
The deer's leg collapsed beneath it, and it fell on its side, panting, its flank heaving, blood pouring from every wound, but its head still turned, its gaze still fixed on Breaker.
He had had quite enough; he jammed his right foot onto one of the antlers to hold the poor thing down, and used his sword to chop off its head.
It took three blows, and when it was done Breaker was spattered from toe to waist with blood, mud, and gore, and dark blood drenched his rain-soaked sleeves to the elbow. He was shaking, whether from the cold rain or the aftereffects of the fight he wasn't sure, and the deer's body twitched for several seconds, as well.
"Are you all right?" the Leader asked.
Breaker didn't answer; he did not think he could speak yet without his voice shaking even more than his hands. He swallowed, and blinked rain from his eyes.
He had just killed a deer, he realized. He wasn't a hunter, hadn't been blessed by the priests, hadn't said the necessary prayers. He fell to his knees in the mud, bloody sword raised.
"Oh, ler of this land, spirit of this deer, spirits of all the creatures I have offended, I beg your forgiveness!" he called, and his voice did not shake at all. "I acted in haste, I acted to defend myself, and if I have wronged the ler, I ask that you instruct me in how I can atone!"
"We don't have time for this," the Leader said. "We still need to clear the path, and there may be more animals."
"Hear me, Erren Zal Tuyo!" the Speaker's voice called.
Startled, Breaker turned; the Speaker was leaning out the wagon's door.
"The ler of the deer and the land say you have done no wrong, that your acts freed the deer's spirit from enslavement, that it is the Wizard Lord who wrongs the land with his storms and distortions. Go about your business!"
Breaker blinked rain from his eyes and lowered his sword, simultaneously confused and reassured. How could the Wizard Lord wrong the land? Was he not lord of the land, of all Barokan? Had he gone that far from the right path?
But the Speaker could not be lying about such a thing; she would have had to listen to the ler's protests.
"Come on," the Leader said. "Let's move that tree."
; Automatically, Breaker drew a rag from his pocket and began wiping his blade clean, even though he knew he would not be able to dry it properly until he was back in the wagon, and therefore could not sheathe it safely.
He had killed a deer, and it had been the right and necessary thing to do, but he still did not like it. Killing animals was for hunters and herdsmen, not barley-farmers—or swordsmen. It wasn't his place to kill deer, and they should be killed with spear or arrow, not a sword.
And why hadn't the deer fled when wounded, as the dog had? Why had the Wizard Lord's hold been so much stronger?
Perhaps the Wizard Lord had been better prepared, or was improving with practice. Breaker shuddered.
And then he was at the tree, and he and the Leader were too busy heaving at the unyielding wood to worry about anything else for the next few moments.
They had maneuvered the main bulk to one side, and had an opening that the wagon could probably squeeze through, when Breaker glanced uneasily toward the wagon. Something was bothering him, but he could not say what it was. He peered through the rain at the wagon, its outline weirdly distorted by the iron and bronze cage that protected it, as if someone had tried to cross it out of the world.
Something was moving across the top.
At first he thought it was a trick of the light, or rainwater splashing from the metal, or even perhaps a momentarily visible ler of some sort, but as he stared he realized it was not his imagination, nor any sort of illusion or spirit.
It was a squirrel.
He almost relaxed at that, then caught himself. What was a squirrel doing out in a downpour like this?
The Wizard Lord had just demonstrated that he was possessing animals to use against them, and while a squirrel might not be able to attack as directly as a dog or buck, that didn't mean it was completely harmless. And it might not just be the one squirrel—Breaker remembered the forest between Stoneslope and the nameless neighboring village, where it had seemed as if the Wizard Lord had turned every bird and small beast in the area to watch them, though he had not yet dared attack openly.
"Excuse me, Boss," he said, as he turned and began slogging through the mud, back toward the wagon.
"Sword, what are you. .. ?" Then the Leader saw the squirrels—two of them now—as well. "Squirrels?"
Breaker didn't bother to reply.
"Sword, what do you think squirrels are going to do?"
"They have teeth. They have claws. And there may be more of them."
In fact, a third was on the bench at the front of the wagon. One of the pair atop the wagon was now staring fixedly at Breaker and the Leader.
"Sword!"
Breaker did not turn around; he had his sword in his hand and was watching the squirrels closely.
There were more leaping up on the bench, he saw— climbing up the wheels or the dragging chains and making their way to the bench. This was definitely not natural. He began to run as best he could, splashing up to the wagon.
The squirrels did not flee at his approach; instead several of them gathered on the bench and turned to meet him.
He did not worry about killing them; he merely swept them aside with his blade, knocking them to the ground— or in some cases, only to the tongue beneath the bench. A small part of his mind worried about those, that they might bother the oxen, who were still standing placidly despite the various disturbances, but for the most part he focused on boarding the wagon and seeing what the situation was within. He clambered hastily over the bench and through the door.
The lanternlit interior was a scene so bizarre that Breaker had trouble comprehending it at first.
The Archer lay on his belly, head turned to one side, breathing in harsh, hissing gulps—despite the healing he was obviously still in pain. The others were still crouched over him, but most of their attention was on a small horde of squirrels that had climbed in.
The Beauty, at one side, was fending the squirrels away from the Archer; the squirrels were snapping and clawing, trying to bite the wounded man's legs. In the gloom of the rear the Scholar was rummaging through the packed supplies, looking for something—presumably a weapon of some sort. The Speaker, wedged into a corner out of the way, was shouting in a language Breaker had never heard before, a language that did not sound even remotely human—that sounded, in fact, like a squirrel's chittering.
And the Seer stood to one side by the Archer's feet, bent almost double, grabbing the squirrels one by one and wringing their necks; half a dozen broken little bodies already lay in the bed of the wagon.
Breaker watched her method for a second or two in astonishment; her hands moved with a speed he had never seen in anyone as old as she, and unerringly closed on the animals' necks. She did not seem to be aiming at where the squirrels were at all, but rather, on where they were going to be, after they had attempted to dodge. She would twist each head and snap the neck without even looking, her attention already focused on her next victim.
Without a word, Breaker joined in the slaughter, quickly spearing the remaining animals with his sword, and in a few seconds the chaos and noise had suddenly ceased. The only sounds were the drumming of the rain and the Archer's labored breath.
Breaker crouched in the wagon, unable to stand straight, and looked at the dead squirrels. He prodded a few with the point of his sword, and counted.
There were thirty-four dead squirrels scattered across the bed of the wagon.
"There were more outside," he said. "There were two atop the wagon, watching, and I chased more away when I came in."
"Fifty-four," the Speaker said. "That's the most he can control."
Breaker looked up at her. "How do you know?"
Just then the Leader arrived in the door, and the Speaker glanced at him before replying, "The ler told me, of course. The ler of the dead squirrels were furious, and eager to help—the Wizard Lord had summoned and bound them, but had made no death-bargain. He could not possess them outright, as he did the deer—he can control only a single body at a time—but he had spoken their true names and called them to his service, and they could not resist his commands while they lived. Once they were dead, though, their true names were altered and the spell no longer bound them, and they could tell me what they knew."
"And what was that?" the Leader asked.
The Speaker shrugged. "Very little. They knew very little. They were only squirrels, after all—their thoughts were of nests and climbing and nuts, and getting out of the rain, not of magic or human schemes. But they knew the names the Wizard Lord spoke, their own and the others, and they told me all of them, all fifty-four, and I called them aloud to free them from his power, but not soon enough and not loud enough, not clearly enough." She looked around at the dead animals, her face sagging with dismay.
"The two on the roof scampered away, looking very much like ordinary squirrels," the Leader said. "I believe you freed them, in any case, and perhaps some of the others."
"Fifty-four," the Seer said. "You're certain?"
"Fifty-four names were spoken," the speaker confirmed.
"I couldn't count them," the Seer said. "They moved too fast, and there were too many. But when I focused on any one, I could see where it would be."
"Why fifty-four?" the Leader asked. "Was that all the squirrels in the area?"
The Speaker shrugged again. "I don't know," she said. 'They told me he had summoned all he could, but whether because there were no more nearby, or because he did not have enough power to hold more, or because he only knew the fifty-four names, they did not say."
"There are certainly limits to how many creatures he can control at a time," the Scholar said, wiping his hands on his breeches as he emerged from the gloom at the rear. "That's been known for centuries. And the larger the beast in question, the stronger its will, the less complete his control, and the fewer he can command. The more aware a creature is, the more complex its relationship to its environment, and therefore the longer and more complicated its true name is, the ha
rder to say correctly and the more subject to change in the latter portions." He glanced down at the dead squirrels. "These poor things can scarcely need more than a few syllables each, while as I'm sure you know, a human's true name is almost endless."
"True names can change?" Breaker asked.
"Only the later parts," the Scholar said. "Usually, the details are so far in the sequence that we don't consciously know them ourselves. If the opening syllables changed, why, then we wouldn't be us anymore, would we? We'd be someone else who happened to bear some similarity to who we were. But the later terms, a hundred or thousand syllables in—well, are you precisely the same person you were ten years ago, when you were a child? No? Then how could you have the same true name? A true name is what it describes, after all, and if the thing changes, so must the name."
"And that's why the Wizard Lord can't keep a strong hold on a human being," the Seer said. "By the time he's spoken enough of someone's true name to gain real control, the very act of doing things opposed to the victim's own will begins to alter the later syllables."
"So he uses animals."
"Because they're simpler, and naturally more prone to following their instincts or obeying commands. Yes." The Scholar nodded.
"How does he know their names?" Breaker asked. "Does he have some great list he's memorized?"
"The Talisman of Names," the Seer said. "It's one of the eight Great Talismans of power that make him the Wizard Lord, rather than just another wizard."
"It's bound to me," the Speaker said. "To my talisman, the Talisman of Tongues. It's why he dares not slay me."
"That's right," the Scholar said. "If she dies, the Talisman of Tongues dies with her, and the Talisman of Names dies with it, and the Wizard Lord could learn no more true names." He sighed. "Alas, he would still remember every one he has learned so far, as he has the Talisman of Memory, which is bound to my own Talisman of Truth."
"This is all very interesting," the Leader said, "but I don't think we need a lesson in the history of magic right now. I think we would do better to get moving—I believe Sword and I have opened enough of a path."
Watt-Evans, Lawrence - Annals of the Chosen 01 Page 30
